Half of Me
by RougeaufSherlock
Summary: John is shocked when he receives a call that Sherlock is in the hospital. Please enjoy! Some Johnlock! It's my first fic. so go easy on me. Rate K-plus because of sads.


John jumped into a cab. "St. Bart's. Quickly!" he said with a shaky voice. Just earlier he had received a call saying his friend, Sherlock Holmes, was in the hospital.

"In the hospital how?" he replied at first to the call, skeptical that they meant Sherlock was simply working in the hospital and was too lazy to call John himself. But his heart plummeted when the news turned out to be different. Sherlock was in the hospital because earlier that day, he had been shot.

John felt as if a giant balloon was swelling inside him as the cab drove him closer to his destination. He stared out the window at the passing buildings, his mind floating somewhere in the mist above. He was keeping the thoughts of how he would soon find his friend from his mind, trying to hold off on the inevitable feelings that were looming. Yet every now and then, his conscious would gather together the image that he was dreading. The image of Sherlock a mess on a tiny hospital bed- knocked out on drugs, hooked up to a dozen blip-ping machines and IVs. Pale face drooped over the pillow. John tried to force it out of his mind, but it had a way of forcing itself back in.

He was surprised the day could be so bright and sunny.

The cab parked in front of the St. Bart's and John quickly ran inside. He learned the room number and directions from the receptionist, and rushed upstairs. The door was right down the hall, and John marched toward it without haste. The door seemed to bounce up and down and grow larger with each footstep. The closer he came, the faster the balloon swelled inside him. His thoughts gathered quickly back into his consciousness and he could no longer avoid the feelings he wanted to escape.

He already knew he was allowed to visit, so he did not knock. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. The balloon was ready to burst. "Please be okay," he whispered, and opened the door.

He kept his eyes to floor at first, afraid to look up.

"Nice of you to come, John." Said Sherlock's familiar voice. The alarmingly calm sound of his friend surprised John into bolting his eyes forward. The balloon did not pop when he saw his friend. In fact, it just quickly deflated.

Sherlock was standing up by window. He had just as much strength as ever. John's eyes accidentally moved to Sherlock's naked butt underneath his hospital robe.

"Sherlock what are you—what's going on? What happened?"  
"I was shot earlier. You know this. They feel the need to keep me here."  
"Yes, Sherlock. You were shot. You need to lay down and rest." John was dumbfounded at how easily Sherlock was brushing this off, and started to doubt that he even was shot at all.  
"Fine. I was just waiting for you to show up anyway." replied Sherlock.

He would normally be surprised at Sherlock's willingness to follow orders, but this seemed to pale in comparison to the shock of the entire day.

"Besides, the nurses will be back soon."  
"Good. Very good." John responded, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock walked back to the bed and stuck the IV back in his arm.  
John did not really know how to act. He wanted to help Sherlock, but he seemed completely fine, and John's presence almost seemed like an inconvenience. His head was spinning. Although he was angry, he was also relieved that his friend was not gravely injured. That weight was lifted off of his chest. But that lifted weight seemed to carry a bit more with it, and John felt light-headed from the confusion. Sherlock had been shot. He'd confirmed it. The hospital confirmed it. Yet he seemed completely normal as if nothing happened, and John knew from experience how traumatizing being shot was. He did not know what to believe. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat himself down.

"You look confused." Sherlock pointed out.  
"That's an understatement."

"What's so confusing?"

John was not surprised such a thing would go over Sherlock's head.  
"Well for starters, Sherlock, I just got a call saying you'd been shot. I was frightened beyond wit, and then I show up here and it's as if nothing happened at all. Why do you always do this? Please explain to me what's going on, because contrary to what you might believe, I have no idea."

"I told you, and you know very well what happened. It's very simple."  
"Where were you shot then? You seem perfectly fine."

"Oh. Just below the heart. I should count myself lucky. If it had just been a bit higher, I probably would not be talking to you right now."

John just stared, trying to read his friend.

"Do you need proof?" Sherlock reached behind him to untie his hospital robe.  
"No no. It's fine. Sherlock- don't" But it had already been done. The robe dropped down, exposing Sherlock's bare top half.

"That's impossible." Said John staring wide-eyed at the wound. It looked real. Sherlock however, just shrugged.

"I've had worse."

But when John looked back up to Sherlock's face, he could not help but notice that Sherlock had become a little more pale.

"Are you sure you're okay? You've grown paler."

"I'm fine."  
"Let me see." John moved in to get a closer look at the wound. Everything did in fact seem fine. He also felt a little uncomfortable being so close to his nearly-naked friend. He was a little intimidated and almost aroused at Sherlock's beauty, but he chose not to focus on it and tried to clear his thoughts. He leaned back in his seat. He didn't know whether it was worth staying with Sherlock in the hospital or not.

The nurse came back in for a moment to check on Sherlock and fix his medicine. She looked disappointed when she saw Sherlock's undone robe.  
"I respect your decisions," she said, "But Mr. Holmes is in no condition for this type of activity right now, Dr. Watson."  
John could feel the blood rushing to his face as Sherlock rolled his eyes and covered himself up again.  
"We're not-" but the nurse had already left. John decided it was pointless to try and argue anyway. It never works.

"I'll have to be here for a while, John. Will you stay with me? It's dreadfully boring here."

John _was_ angry at Sherlock, and he did not know why, because he should have felt glad that his friend was okay, especially since he had, indeed, been wounded as he said. So he forced himself to smile, and nodded.

John's head was swimming with questions, but he could not get his mind straight to be able to sort them out.

"Tell me about the war." Requested Sherlock.  
The question hit John so suddenly, yet instead of offending him, it intrigued him to a short extent.  
"What do you want to know?"

"What was it like. For you?"  
"That's a strange question for you to be asking. Are you _sure_ you're okay?"  
"Yes. Perfectly fine."

"Well. I usually try not think about it Sherlock. It's not easy for me to talk about."

"Yes. I can imagine the trauma of being in such immediate danger for a prolonged period-"

"-Yes, but it was more than that." He cut in, a offended.  
John caught himself quickly though. A small part of him wanted to discuss it, but an even greater part of him wanted to drop the topic. He never wanted to speak of the war, but relief tugged at him as he began to open up.

"Yes?" pressured Sherlock.

John sighed, giving in. "You see a lot, I suppose. A lot of it I wish I could forget."

Again John paused

"Like what?"

He started to regret his decision to talk. "Sorry, I don't think I can do this right now."

"Please do." Sherlock suggested. "It might do you well. At least it will keep me entertained until I can get out of here." He forced a wide grin, as he often does.

So John sighed and continued with his tale. He was not sure why he was telling Sherlock anything about the war, because he avoided any and all conversation about it, yet he somehow felt comfortable telling everything to his friend, who actually, surprisingly, was listening. Really listening. As he spoke, John could feel a great burden being lifted from him. He told of the pain and heartbreak of watching fellow men fall before him, the grief of not being able to save them, the loud noises that kept him up at night. He thought he would never move on, but then he admitted that befriending Sherlock actually helped him do just that. This seemed to flatter Sherlock, as he turned away to hide a real smile.

By the time John had finished speaking, Sherlock's skin had turned a more sickly color, and he had returned to his pillow.

"I wish I could be like you John. I wish I could trade in this brain for a heart, and maybe find interest in more abundant, less complicated things. But I just cannot understand how you maintain such strong feelings for others. It makes little sense to me."

John's worry was returning to him. Sherlock was perfectly fine not too long ago, but now he looked similar to how John was originally picturing him when he walked into the room.

"I think you do understand though, Sherlock. Because now that I think of it, that's not an actual bullet wound, is it? You're hiding something from me… What really happened?"

Sherlock sighed. His voice was weaker when he spoke.  
"You're very clever John. I owe your more credit than I give"  
Everything was starting to fall into place, and John at the same time was falling apart.  
"What is it then, Sherlock? Is there anything can I do?"  
"There is nothing you can do. Unfortunately, there is nothing at all that can be done. Now help me up, please. And hurry." said Sherlock with a sense of urgency.  
His light-headedness intensified. John's mind left his body yet again to float in a dense gray mist above reality. Spikes pounded into his heart. But he had a job to do. Mimicking Sherlock's sense of urgency, John helped him off the bed and walked him to the bathroom, where he could hear his friend vomiting. With each cough echoing from that tiny room, John felt the spikes stabbing him further. He was starting to come to terms with what was happening, his mind coming back down from the mist. He wanted to force his feelings away, force the thoughts to disappear, but was it for the best? Sherlock would need him there. So took a deep breath and let everything fall into place. His entire body was shaking. Everything was numb. He decided to act as normal as possible for his friend, imagining that is why Sherlock hid the severity of this from John.  
When Sherlock was back at the bed, John asked him, "How long?"as no other question seemed appropriate. Avoiding the topic was too unrealistic._ 'Just don't show him you're sad'_ John thought to himself. _'Try to act happy. Don't break. Not yet.'_

"An hour at best."  
"God damn it, Sherlock!" _'hold yourself together_' he thought, taking another deep breath.

Sherlock chuckled. "Don't worry about me. It's nothing."  
"Do you not realize the gravity of this?" he asked, as calmly as he could will himself.  
"Is there something I'm missing? I'm not _afraid_ to die. Nobody lives forever John, and I never planned to. You don't need to act for me."  
John wanted to be angry with his friend, but he could not. Not now. No, there was something else. An emotion he'd been struggling with for a long time. Something he needed to say before he lost the chance.

For a minute, the two sat in silence. John broke it.  
"Whatever that…thing... is doing to you. Did this happen because of me?" John remembered the case they had not yet finished from the previous day.  
"Don't be ridiculous." Replied Sherlock, but John could hear the lie in his voice. He wanted to know what happened. What did they do to him? But it was not important at the moment. Time was limited.  
"I love you." Said John, barely audible under his breath.

"Sorry?"  
"I said," he paused to gather himself. "I love you, Sherlock." Then he lost control of his emotions, and his eyes started to tear and he stared ahead in attempts to control it.

"I'm sorry. I have to say it."

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment in surprise.  
"Yes, well. You know I don't bother myself with sentiment." Replied Sherlock awkwardly, spitting the word 'sentiment'. John looked down. "But I must admit that I've grown quite fond of you as well, John." He finished his sentence with a smile. A genuine smile.

John continuously wiped his eyes trying without success, to hide that he was crying. He felt a mixture of happiness, sadness, dreadful emptiness. What could possibly comfort him?

Sherlock seemed to know what he needed.

"Come here." Sherlock slid over with the little energy he had and opened up the sheet. John nodded and joined Sherlock in the tiny bed.

John wanted to say so much to his friend, but instead they spent Sherlock's last hour in each other's arms. To his surprise, Sherlock actually began to cry himself.

"I don't want to go," sobbed Sherlock, finally coming to terms with his situation. John wanted to help. He wanted to stop it. He wanted to say a few "magic words" and take everything back to normal but he knew he could not, so he simply held Sherlock closer and placed his lips on his head, stroking his hair as Sherlock sobbed into his chest. He felt so desperate, but that was the best he could do.

John felt so comfortable lying there with Sherlock. So perfectly at ease in the silence with him. He moved down so his face was parallel with Sherlock's, and in his last minutes, they kissed. John had never felt anything like it before. He had never felt so much love and emotion in anything, and it was a feeling he never wanted to let go of, but he had to, because Sherlock left too soon. Just before he breathed his last breaths, Sherlock looked John in the eye, and whispered, as that was the greatest vocal strength he could muster, "Promise me something."

"What is it?

"Move on with your life, and forget about me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Please, John."

"No-" but John was too choked up. "I won't"- he managed to breathe. How could Sherlock possibly believe anything could be so simple as to just "forget someone" especially someone who had such a great impact on his life? He was angry, and he was sad. How could Sherlock consider himself so insignificant? He was, to John at least, the most important man in the world.

Sherlock smiled. His eyes were glistening, but he no longer seemed sad. He actually seemed happy. But only for a moment, because suddenly with a sigh, he stopped breathing, and the light in his eyes went out. John stared in disbelief that this could have happened. He thought of the words unspoken, wondering if he'd ever said enough.

He spent a while, just lying there holding Sherlock close to him.  
"I won't forget you." he whispered.

Everything was dark. Everything was numb. He did not want to feel. He just wanted to be there with his friend, who could no longer be there for him. He stayed with Sherlock until the hospital staff came into the room. John held his on to hand for as long as he could until Sherlock was pulled away. John was not ready to let go.

He watched them carry his best friend- the only person who mattered-away from him. He tried to hold on to the memory of those last moments together, but new knowledge began to sink in of what the next, and last, encounter with his friend was going to be, and he fell back into the chair, hopeless. Where would he go from here?


End file.
